


in the belly of a black-winged bird

by agent_orange



Category: Hamilton - Miranda (Broadway Cast) RPF
Genre: Anxiety, Awkwardness, Drunk Sex, F/M, M/M, Panic Attacks, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 10:15:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11102436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange
Summary: Leslie’s tie has come loose and there’s stubble growing on his jaw, Daveed sees as his eyes track up, trying not to stare at Leslie’s mouth, but otherwise he looks far too intact. What’s the point of a Tonys afterparty if you’re not going to turn the fuck up? He has.





	in the belly of a black-winged bird

**Author's Note:**

  * For [speakingwosound (sev313)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/gifts).



> Made possible through two generous Fight Back Fic donations. I am deeply sorry this is so late.
> 
> Thanks to witchpriest and singmyheart for notes and encouragement.

_i. getting lost in the big city_

Role in a Broadway musical notwithstanding, Daveed’s never thought he was a singer. Just an actor and a rapper with a best friend who can be heavy-handed enough with auto-tune in post for Daveed to get by.

Starting from Vassar he told Lac and Tommy countless times _I’m not a singer, I can’t sing, I don’t know what I’m doing—I can’t dance either_ , so they couldn’t claim ignorance. Hamilton is one thing (a fucking miracle, he’d told his mom) but Daveed wasn’t really expecting to keep going like this. So far, no one has realized the rest of his castmates are way more talented than he is, and Daveed’s fine if it stays that way. 

By now, they’ve settled into a routine. Daveed likes the stability of it. Andrew makes backstage videos, Tommy flies in and out constantly, drops by to give them notes, Morgan keeps them going with jokes and ridiculously huge cookies. The sixth show of the week starts to wear him down and he’ll pick someone in the cast at random, feed off their energy, goes out after weekend shows no matter how tired he is.

Today it’s courtesy of Leslie, who’d asked him for a post-Sunday mat drink; his warning of ‘a favor to ask’ made Daveed’s head swirl with possibilities, feelings he tries to bury smoldering deep in the pit of his stomach. _Be on my cover of a Disney star’s song_ hadn’t even been an inkling, and he laughs, a little too loud from the shock of it.

“You want Chris for this,” Daveed intones, not a question. _It has to be a mistake_. Chokes when he mirrors Leslie, sips his drink—scotch that Leslie ordered for them both, and it burns all the way down.

“No. You. The actual, professional rapper in the show. Outside of the show. Whichever. Point is—” Leslie’s smile is disarming, sharp teeth blindingly white. It’s clear he hadn’t expected Daveed to hesitate, or need convincing, but he rolls with it. “I’m not the one who says he hates freestyling and does it every night backstage before performing. Lin told me,” he explains over the clinking of ice in his glass. “I bet you could do this in your sleep. And I’m not prepared to take no for an answer, either.”

Daveed asks, “Is that so?” Wonders exactly what he’s done to demand this kind of attention from Leslie, with his classic Broadway voice and perfectly-tailored everything. The rest of his drink doesn’t go down any easier, his tongue sticking dry in his mouth. He flags down a waiter to get a vodka soda, extra lime, and then turns back to Leslie.

“I got a day of studio time in a few weeks. That’s not the kind of thing that comes cheap, and no one wants to hear me rap on this.” Leslie’s holding eye contact, giving Daveed a Look and he wants to fully decipher it but can only laugh despite himself. He, for one, is interested in hearing Leslie rap on the song. “What’s holding you back from saying yes?”

 _Everything_ , Daveed thinks. _That deep-seated fear of failure he can’t seem to shake? Self-preservation instincts?_ Malcolm’s voice floats through his head, pushing Daveed to take a risk, telling him that even a ‘disaster’ will work out fine. Starts with, “I’m flattered you asked,” and his stupid lizard brain won’t conjure up an excuse why he can’t do it, no get out of jail free card on the tip of his tongue. He takes a minute, swallows hard around the lump in his throat and says, “Shit, I guess I’m in. No refunds or exchanges.” And the smile Leslie flashes him is enough to make up for the sinking feeling in his stomach that he’s in too deep.

_ii. between the wish and the well_

This week—no, fuck, this entire _month_ , practically—has been a blur, fancy dinners that make him feel too big for the room, out of place; daylong shoots that make him rush to the theater and slog through his show; and far too many interviews even with Rafa there to buffer the sharp edges. He feels the dam about to break not long before it does, manages to hightail it from makeup to the dressing room he’s been put in before his breath starts to catch. The adrenaline jolts him alert and he can’t focus, can’t overcome the feeling of shakiness. Slides down the wall when his legs give out and curls up there, head on the cool ground.

It’s easier, at least, to try slowing his breathing down when he can use the floor as an anchor but his lungs don’t want to cooperate, barely let him heave in gasps of breath. Over his own panic he hears footsteps, thinks _fuck_. Probably some PA sent to summon him for filming, or someone who’ll find him and cut him loose since he obviously can’t do the job. Rubs at his eyes and realizes they’re a little wet.

But it’s only Leslie, so quiet Daveed almost doesn’t hear him at first. “Hey,” he says, smooth voice pitched low as if he’s soothing a scared animal. He sits next to Daveed, not so close that it makes him feel cornered. Nudges him so Daveed has to meet his eyes and says, “Slow, okay, you gotta take deeper breaths.” Daveed tries, and it doesn’t work. Leslie helps him sit up, presses one hand on Daveed stomach, says, “Focus on this. Breathe with me okay?”

And Daveed still can’t, not right away, but Leslie’s taking these huge exaggerated breaths trying to make him do the same. It’s embarrassing and he tries to hide his face once he’s not hyperventilating, but Leslie stops him.

“You don’t have to tell me anything.” He sips his coffee before continuing, clearly tired. Maybe not as much of a morning person as Daveed had thought. “You can tell me to fuck off if you want, I don’t care. But I’ve been told I’m a pretty good listener, and you’re...you should let someone help you, even if it’s not me.

“None of this feels right,” Daveed admits. This entire time he’s been waiting for something to go wrong, for the show to fall into the pattern of his life and drop him or turn sour. Anything good that lasts this long is suspect, in his experience, and it’s a hard mindset to break. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

They’re shoulder to shoulder now, so close Daveed can smell all the powder and spray they covered Leslie with, not that he needs it. Can feel the press of Leslie’s arm and how serious he is as he offers, “I’ll tell you a secret. You’re actually not the first one to freak out, if you can believe it,” which does make Daveed give him a weak smile in return. “Happened to me a lot when I was younger. Renée practically had to talk Pip off a ledge before opening, and there’s plenty of others with you. Lots of actors get stage fright.”

Daveed says, “Yeah,” doesn’t correct Leslie’s assumption because stage fright isn’t a big deal but spilling your guts about chronic and severe anxiety at the ass crack of dawn is much more likely to become a Thing. Says, “I thought I was too old for this,” with a little self-deprecating smirk to cover his fear. “You ever think this would happen?” with a wave of his hand meant to include all the Hamilton-related craziness: doors he didn’t even know existed opening for him left and right, performing for the President, #ham4ham crowds so big the police show up most days. Being able to buy last-minute tickets to see Jalene in Trinidad without a second thought. Really, he’s not sure he could have ever imagined all this to hope for it.

“You can’t ever think about this. The reward,” Leslie tells him, sounding like he made that mistake earlier in his career. “Because you can’t ever expect it to happen or get comfortable. Shows close or flop and TV can get cancelled, or you’ll get injured, or something else will happen. You have to put a hundred and ten percent into everything and then just pray.” He looks at Daveed, considering. Rests his hand on Daveed’s knee which almost makes Daveed panic again, says, “Is your heart still racing?”

“Uh. Ha,” he says, hoping it doesn’t show, feeling like bees instead of butterflies are in his stomach. “No, I think it’s okay now. Thank you.”

“Good.” Leslie doesn’t move his hand and Daveed would be happy to stay there, wonders vaguely if they’re late. And then he does move, his hand coming up to Daveed’s face as he kisses Daveed, barely brushing their lips together. It takes Daveed a minute to do anything, half-convinced it’s a dream; Leslie deepens the kiss and Daveed pulls back, suddenly himself again. 

“Nicolette—” Daveed starts, because he’s not about to ruin a good thing (someone else’s good thing, to boot) _and_ shit where he eats. The laugh he gets in return surprises him, makes him wonder if he’s way off-base somehow.

“Told me I’d be an idiot if I didn’t do this.” Not wrong, then. Daveed manages to make eye contact, can’t help but rest his hands on Leslie’s cheeks, drinking in his smile. Practically feels himself being pulled closer. “We should probably go,” he says, lets Daveed initiate a kiss, pulls him to his feet and makes him yelp. Heart rabbit-quick in the pit of his chest as he heads onstage.

_iii. the fallacy of sunk costs_

“Another round for everyone!” Lin yells above the crowd, straining to be heard for once. The music is pounding loud enough to blow him out, the fireworks over the river pulling Daveed’s focus away. Not that he can focus on one thing for long, anyway. He feels half-stuck in time, like it’s passing in bursts around him: Renée smearing lipstick on his cheek, clinging teary-eyed and gushy to whoever’s nearest; Chinaka mingling while Malcolm and Raf slap each others’ backs, looking starstruck and doing a poor job of faking nonchalance; Ari and Jill both have on killer suits, so in bright and in love Daveed can practically feel it from across the dance floor.

It’s all a little too much for him but he wants to remember everything about tonight, the ephemeral feeling in his bones. The bar—open, not cash, so Lin’s promises are worthless—isn’t exactly conducive to that, because he can snag another drink and mindlessly gulp half of it without needing to ration how much he can buy. Chews on the lime to keep occupied until it leaves his lips burning. They’re raw, he realizes, running his tongue over them, must have bitten them all night. He lets the ice melt in his mouth, glances around the floor to see his parents dancing under the moon, moves too slow for the music they barely seem to notice. Stephanie and Jasmine drag him out to dance, putting his skills to shame. 

Somehow, in the middle of the party, Leslie finds him, and Daveed is able to excuse himself, lets Leslie walk them over toward the bar and refresh their drinks before hugging him. It’s the first time Daveed has seen him tonight and he wonders where he’s been, if he feels as ( _undeserving terrified confused_ ) overwhelmed as Daveed does, and lingers for a minute. Bends down a little to say, “Congratulations, man,” right into Leslie’s ear so it doesn’t get swallowed up by all the shouting, and if he’s not mistaken Leslie shivers.

“And to you, too.” Leslie’s tie has come loose and there’s stubble growing on his jaw, Daveed sees as his eyes track up, trying not to stare at Leslie’s mouth, but otherwise he looks far too intact. What’s the point of a Tonys afterparty if you’re not going to turn the fuck up? He has.

The entire place is wobbling, people and furniture slightly off-center in his sights so obviously he’s taken plenty of advantage of the situation. Keeps his arm slung around Leslie’s shoulder and gestures vaguely to a vacant table off to the side, able to stay upright before plunking down in a chair.

“What did I tell you, though?” Leslie prods, frustratingly measured and smug at once and nothing on his face betrays it. “We all knew you were going to win. I guess you missed Jon’s complete lack of a campaign? All the rave reviews?” He does, finally, take a drink and then sets his fingers against Daveed’s forearm, right under where his shirt ends. Good thing he’d gotten rid of his jacket already.

Daveed shakes his head. “You’re the one who told me not to read reviews. Well. You and Jon and Ariana. I listened for once, okay,” he says, hyper-aware of how Leslie’s fingers are slowly running up and down his arm. He’s ticklish but it feels nice. And then the drunken hiccups hit him, nothing to drink but more alcohol and he tries holding his breath but he might be too far gone for that. Focuses on enunciating and not slurring. “Okay? Okay. I listened. I didn’t read a f-fucking word; I had to block it all on my computer so I wouldn’t look but I stayed away. You can’t be mad at me for that, and, like, the surprise was fine with my parents. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them cry so much.”

“Mine tried to pretend they weren’t emotional,” Leslie agrees. From the slight puffiness of his eyes, the redness around his nose and mouth, it looks like he’s been crying too, or he did earlier. And it only makes sense. Everything Leslie has ever done has led to this moment, et cetera. “It’s all a front, I promise you. Luz told me earlier—I’ve been at the official party most of the night—that Luis cries over _every_ award.” He smiles, fond.

“Of course.” Daveed is still pretty sure his mom could give Luis a run for his money in terms of embarrassingly extra parenting but it’s nice to know he’s not alone. “You won too,” he says. “Best _leading_ actor. Shit, man. I bet you never hear the end of it from Lin. And for playing the antagonist who murders the titular character. Might as well retire after this, right?” Secretly he’s thought of that, disappearing while he’s in demand so he never has to fade into obscurity, but if Leslie did that it’d be a real loss.

Selfishly, Daveed hopes no one spots them, doesn’t want Leslie to get stuck in an hours-long cycle of greetings and congratulations and kisses. Realizes then, he can do something about it, get them far from the crowd and inside where it’s quiet. “Come on.” Daveed pulls at his arm, running _be cool it’s fine you got this_ through his addled brain even as Leslie follows. Fingers crossed that it sticks. Fingers clutching at the fabric of Leslie’s sleeve, barely touching but enough to steer him into a bathroom. Single-occupancy.

Locking the door, Daveed says, “Celebration,” deadpan and flat like they’re not actually there for one. Slurs on _congratulations_ , “the right way.”

Warily (and that’s new) Leslie sighs, practically deflating. “Please tell me you don’t mean cocaine, Daveed. I know how LA is, man, no judgement, but it’s not my thing. Go give that to Andrew or someone; you can tell everyone I’m a nerd. Square, if you will.”

“ _Ouch_ ,” Daveed says, hand to his heart. “Swear it’s not coke. Much less neb-nebulous.”

And Leslie takes a breath of relief but his eyebrows go up. “You sure you’re alright, though?”

“Maybe I’m a little—” Daveed hiccups again. “A _little_ drunk. Why aren’t you?”

Dry-toned and flat, Leslie says, “I’m old,” keeps Daveed’s laugh from ringing against the bathroom tile by kissing him, crowding him against the door. He’s got to crane his neck up a bit and it makes Daveed feel bigger.

“We’re the same age,” he responds, bites at Leslie’s soft lips, tasting the bitterness of wine, the salt from his skin. Does his best to lean down without falling forward, lets his mouth fall open for Leslie’s tongue. This is still far from routine, a new discovery that Daveed’s knees buckle just from that. Gets reacquainted with Leslie’s mouth, the way he kisses: open and sweet, nose nudging at Daveed’s every so often.

“You really wanna do this here?” It’s clear he’s skeptical. Daveed had filled in the gaps of what he knows about Leslie with guesses and constructed an image of class and restraint but he wants to dig beneath the surface now, see what secrets he can drag up.

“Well, we _are_ here,” he says against Leslie’s neck. Debates leaving a mark before kissing up his jaw. “So it’d be awfully convenient…” Finds Leslie’s mouth again and uses his tongue to ease his lips apart, kisses him until they’re both short of breath. Maybe he can’t spin a coherent argument right now but _can_ wear down Leslie’s resistance with his mouth on Leslie’s, on the side of his neck where it makes him moan.

“I wanna.” Daveed’s tongue is so heavy in his mouth, uncooperative at the worst times. Maybe gone a little numb, too, struggling to form words. “Lemme suck you off, you earned it.” They haven’t done that yet and he’s not expecting a _no_ but holds his breath as he runs his fingers over the fabric, lingering over Leslie’s dick. Daveed can feel the heat of him and it takes a conscious effort not to just grind his thigh there.

“Jesus.” Leslie sputters a little. “How could I turn that down?” Eyes gone darker, dangerously deep, like they could swallow Daveed up if he wasn’t careful. The thought makes Daveed’s stomach flip, not entirely unpleasant.

He’d meant to kneel but his ass hits the floor first— _fuck_ , that’ll bruise. The alcohol keeps swirling in his blood, fresh waves of disorientation, making his fingers shake as he gets up on his knees to pull at Leslie’s shirt. He gets a few of the bottom buttons undone but the belt is harder, alcohol-heavy head threatening to betray him. He mouths at the skin he can reach, breathing in how good Leslie smells, musky and citrusy and a little like smoke, hands on Leslie’s hips for balance. It’s almost too much for him, the silkiness of Leslie’s boxers and _fuck_ , the shape of him as Daveed pulls the fabric down. There’s no holding back now, but he’s practically woozy as he leans in, realizing too late he’s misjudged and opened his mouth against Leslie’s thigh instead of his dick.

And then Leslie’s hand is on his head, easing him back. Daveed doesn’t get to hide his face, then, has to see the pained look on Leslie’s face. “This was so thoughtful of you,” he hedges, typical Leslie politeness. “But on second thought, maybe we can do that sometime when you’re sober?” He takes Daveed’s arm to help him up, going in for another kiss. Softening the blow before adding,” There’s nothing to stress about now. Relax, okay?” Firm press of his hands against Daveed’s chest, putting his back flush with the wall.

Daveed opens his mouth, tries to say that he’s good, he can still—but Leslie puts his index finger there, shushing him. He doesn’t move it and this time Daveed doesn’t miss, tilting his head until Leslie’s finger slips in, the brush of it tickling his palate. Lips closing around it, tongue working until Leslie removes his hand, leans forward to kiss Daveed until he’s melted, or clay ready to be molded. Says, “It’s okay,” and not _don’t worry about it_ , wise enough to know that there’s no such concept for Daveed. Says, “Let me.”

And okay, maybe Leslie’s sobriety is convenient after all as he handles the buttons on Daveed’s shirt, shifting expertly to his belt and pants, pulling them down to his knees before settling a little awkwardly to his own. It upsets his balance and he grabs Leslie’s shoulder, wrinkling the shirt Daveed didn’t manage to take off.

“God,” he murmurs, breath catching from Leslie’s palms smoothing over his thighs. Wonders how Leslie keeps his skin so soft before deciding, as his boxers come off, that it doesn’t matter so long as Leslie doesn’t stop touching him and keeps moving his mouth down Daveed’s stomach. Clutches tighter at Leslie’s shoulder when he takes Daveed in his hand, waiting patiently as Daveed gets hard.

“Stay still,” Leslie tells him, the regular unhurried way he moves making it clear he’s in charge. Leisurely, like they’re not in the bathroom at their own party, he swipes his thumb over the head of Daveed’s cock, making him curse.

Asking for things has never been easy, makes Daveed flush and stammer at the best of times. He hears himself say _please_ without meaning to, tamps down the rambling string of pleas threatening to escape him because Leslie’s warm breath on him has made him weak but he can’t spill everything at once. “Please, just...I—”

“I know,” Leslie says, not half as smug as he could be and Daveed is going to kill him or maybe just die. Daveed’s head hits the wall when Leslie finally takes him inside. Leslie puts a hand on Daveed’s hip, keeping him trapped against the wall, licking at him all hot and slick. He wants to melt into the feeling, let it wash him away, but something is buzzing, distracting. Feels it coming from his phone on the ground and kicks it against the wall, not even caring. Feels the pressure of Leslie’s hands on him, his soft palms; Daveed can almost forget he’s pinned because of _course_ Leslie is fantastic at this, too.

Leslie only needs a minute to pull off and catch his breath, wipes at his lips before he sinks back down, this time all the way. Daveed’s fingers skid uselessly over Leslie’s scalp because there’s nothing for him to grab onto; Rafael had grown his hair out and Daveed liked it long between his fingers, liked pulling it. Made fun of him for his ponytails and aversion to cutting it but still tugged (mostly in private, but yeah, in more than a few bathrooms, too). He pushes the thought away and pets over Leslie’s head, the close crop smooth under his hand, dropping down to his cheek. He can feel himself there, Leslie stretching his mouth tight over Daveed’s dick, just taking it.

“Goddamn,” Daveed says, sure his face would be pink were it not for the rush of blood elsewhere. “Leslie, shit, that’s— _yeah_.” Leslie’s probably never flushed from embarrassment in his life but he brightens, letting Daveed’s dick slip into his throat, effortless and wet. Daveed has to bite his fist, keep from moaning so he won’t echo in the bathroom. Hisses loudly around his hand from the achy-sweet push of two of Leslie’s fingers into him, wet with his own spit. Unexpected but the sharp stretch is a good counterpoint, splits his focus from the soft pull of Leslie’s throat.

“Want you to fuck me,” he blurts, nearly involuntarily, can’t help how he keeps bearing down on Leslie’s fingers, chasing the heat sparking through him. Feels a pang of guilt when Leslie chokes a little, wetness pricking at his eyes.

Once he’s caught his breath, Leslie presses his mouth to Daveed’s hip. “Yes,” he says, “but another time, yeah? Somewhere private with a bed, and nothing rushing me. I’d take my time with you,” and Daveed is definitely dead already, yep. That’s what does it for him, Leslie on his knees, mouth all red and wet from Daveed’s cock as he’s imagining being spread out on Leslie’s bed, worked up until he’s hoarse from moaning.

“I’m gonna come,” Daveed mumbles, half-sure he’ll float away from the feeling of Leslie taking him deeper, unable to keep from being a little rough when he lets go, white-hot and thunderous. Over blood pounding in his ears he can make out the music from the party, something bass-heavy, Leslie’s soft sighs underneath. Can feel it like it’s coming from deep in his own body.

He doesn’t let up on Daveed, two fingers nudging over Daveed’s prostate and his other hand squeezing his own dick—fuck, that’s hot—as his throat works around Daveed. Leslie swallows, hands firmly in place, and Daveed feels practically weightless, burning hot inside and out. Like he could explode from Leslie’s solid fingers pressing on him.

With a groan, he pushes Leslie away. Doesn’t want to. The aftershocks have turned painful and he clutches at the back of Leslie’s neck. “ _Fuck_.” He gets gently licked clean, held up as Leslie gets to his feet stiffly, chases the taste of himself out of Leslie’s mouth. “Shit. I think you killed me.”

Instead of sympathy he gets these tiny sharp bites on his neck, Leslie’s murmur of, “Such a shame,” into his jaw as he puts his hands on Daveed’s. By now he’s sure they’ve been in the restroom too long and he’s always hurrying, like a shark, always moving, while Leslie’s the tortoise.

It’s difficult sometimes to take a minute but Daveed can do this: Leslie kissing Daveed’s throat until he laughs, ticklish; moving their hands down to Leslie’s dick. Which, in Daveed’s opinion, takes far too long, but then he’s still in a way he hasn’t been all day, realizes he’s wanted this for hours. So he spends a good few minutes getting acquainted, feeling the weight and curve of it in his hand. Kind of regrets the loudness of spitting into his hand when Leslie gives him Eyebrows, manages a half-shrug. _Too late now_.

Still clumsy, Daveed starts slow, maybe a little awkward finding a pace. Asks, “Is that good?” into Leslie’s mouth because he’s unsettlingly quiet, breathing hitched but not loud. Twists his hand on the downstroke, gentle press of his fingers under the head. Doesn’t even stress when Leslie actually laughs in Daveed’s face, kisses him open-mouthed, fingers digging angry red half-moons into Daveed’s arms.

“ _Yes_ ,” huffed out on a breath, and that hint of impatience is something to come back to later, Daveed resolves. “You can go harder, shit, like—”

Daveed laughs, squeezes harder. “Damn, let a boy know, then.” One nail dragging over the soft skin of Leslie’s thigh, scratching it sore and reddened so he’ll remember this whenever it stings. Soft skin everywhere, velvet over tightly-coiled muscle. Daveed’s not sure he knew the extent of it and tries not to stare at how good Leslie looks when he tenses, shifts. Eventually he loses his rhythm, moves quicker without meaning to and Leslie goes up on his toes to meet him. One arm looped around Daveed’s neck, bearing some of his weight there so Leslie can stay crushed against Daveed’s torso, hips rocking forward.

Leslie’s quiet when he comes, harsh breaths hot on Daveed’s neck, grabbing at Daveed’s face to kiss him, sink his teeth into Daveed’s lip. Stings hot like he’d been hit, buzzing energy into him as Leslie’s bubbles over and washes away. Eyes shut, body arching as he slows, shivers weakly in Daveed’s hands. Softly says, “You’ve made a convincing point in favor of bathrooms,” and then presses his face into Daveed’s neck like that’s the end of it.

“What are your standards for a dinner date?” Trying to breeze right past the bubble of fear that asking brings up, knows he shouldn’t worry at all. “Is ramen good or are we talking, like, Michelin stars? Actually, don’t answer that,” Daveed says. “You want to get out of here? Let me buy you breakfast, at least. Make up for the...uh, clusterfuck, I guess, earlier.”

“There’s no need,” Leslie says, “but don’t mind if I take you up on the offer. It’s past my bedtime; I’ve got no clue if anythings open around here. Where to?”

“I know a place.” It’s a hole-in-the-wall joint that’s probably been there for decades, serves breakfast all night. All it takes is the short cab ride over to reassure him that he does love New York for what it can offer, when it’s not making him feel tiny and insignificant.

The restaurant’s worse for wear since Daveed last stopped in (the same early morning drunk witching hour, no doubt), the yellowed wallpaper peeling off in raggedy strips, half the marquee dark and two fluorescent burnt out over the drunk college kids arguing. Couple passed out on their table in the back, a dad with tiny kids who should definitely be asleep, some neon-bright ravers and a handful of scattered solo diners. 

A waitress—forties, tired, dark lipstick snarl—brings them coffee, writes down maybe three words for their orders and leaves the pot. Something about Leslie always cues Daveed to mimic him so he follows, doesn’t add anything to his coffee. It’s hot enough to scald but burnt and sour-tasting, strong enough to give him the jitters and a few more hours of energy.

“We missed you tonight,” Daveed offers, consciously trying to make up for earlier. “Everything good with you?”

“I’m great,” Leslie says, sips his coffee. “The party at the Plaza was unbelievable. They had a big band playing and everything. Got to see Lin for a minute and watch him stuff his face with sushi. Oprah was there, no big deal. Thank you, ma’am,” to the waitress when she brings their food. Honey in his voice. Her mouth relaxes and Daveed adds, “Thanks,” looking down to cut his challah french toast. Almost as good as the cinnamon raisin kind his mom used to make, with chocolate chips if he and Malcolm aced a test, did extra chores. 

They’re both quiet for a bit, Leslie scooping up bites of egg and toast and potato. Resolutely, Daveed doesn’t stare at the deft motions of his hands, the yellow smear on Leslie’s mouth and his tongue wiping it clean. Pours more syrup over his french toast, some of the fruit he’d waffled on getting.

Leslie breaks the silence. “I’m leaving the show next month,” casually, as if it were nothing. Inscrutable, slowly disappearing his disk-shaped sausages.

Daveed feels nothing before he’s flooded with thoughts, wondering if something shady happened with contract negotiations, the imminent loss of a close friend from his daily routine, a muted understanding, almost agreement, of only being able to do this for so long. Tries to swallow around what feels like a tennis ball in his throat, spills water around his mouth when he picks up his glass to chug it.

“Yeah,” he says, “I’ll miss you,” and when Leslie chuckles, not unkindly, Daveed can breathe again.

_vi. let’s pretend the fog has lifted_

By the end of their Europe tour, Daveed is ready to take back any complaint he ever made about Broadway. It’s a rough string of shows, traveling across multiple time zones harder than it used to be. Canceling any more performances is not an option, even though Paris got most of the end of his voice. Unanimously, Bill and Jon put him on vocal rest, cover his mouth with their hands whenever he tries saying something. Not that it does much good. His throat feels like he’d shoved poison ivy down it, all red-hot and scratchy.

London is a very raspy night, to say the least, his energy amped up even more in the hopes of making up for it. The audience is fantastic, feeding off of him and giving back plenty to get Daveed through the show. He very nearly jumps into the air when he finds Leslie sitting in his dressing room afterward, embarrassed that he’s shirtless and probably smelly.

“Uh,” Daveed says dumbly. Winces because he really does sound terrible. “Leslie. Hey. _Hey_. I didn’t know you were coming. I could have gotten you something like a backstage spot.”

Leslie shakes his head. “Your persona is so good, you know that? Watching you from out there, getting to be in the audience like a normal guy and seeing the show from their point of view—they were all eating it up, Daveed.” Sometimes he wonders if he’s really connecting with the audience or having an off night, and Leslie doesn’t lie, his reassurance settling over Daveed. “Nicolette wanted to be here, but also would like to skip anything with a mosh pit ‘til the kid can walk, at least. She sends her best.” Hands over a folded towel from the dressing area and watches Daveed wipe himself dry without judging, even though Daveed’s never seen him break a sweat.

Daveed scrubs the towel across his chest, pulls his damp hair into a ponytail to contain the damage. “Thanks. Shit, uh. I’m not really supposed to be talking; don’t tell my band?”

Finger to his lips. “Not a word,” Leslie says, “only _I’m_ going to give you a lot of advice on how to take better care of your voice and probably also not let you talk.”

“Yeah? How’s that?” Daveed’s imaging the threat of punishment if he doesn’t cooperate, maybe, something they’ve obliquely discussed a couple times. Goosebumps prickling on his arms already as he realizes Leslie could have something else in mind.

“Come home with me.” Leslie brushes over Daveed’s sweaty hair, goes to kiss the corner of Daveed’s mouth but Daveed catches him before he ducks away. Taste of jack and coke harsh in Leslie’s mouth before Daveed swallows it down, nothing but sweetness after.

Leslie takes Daveed’s hand in the cab, holds it all the way back to his flat, rubbing over the spot between Daveed’s thumb and index finger. He flushes from that, Leslie’s leg pressing against his own. He’s grateful for the cold air and the chance to collect himself on the walk up to the second floor. It’s a cute little place, too small for anyone bigger and certainly for three.

True to his word, Leslie keeps Daveed from talking, mostly. Gives Daveed a stack of notecards and a pen instead. “You’re always saying you wish you could write more,” he points out, completely straight-faced, an undercurrent of teasing in his voice. Nicolette pads out from the bedroom in the middle of them trying to cook dinner, sleepy-eyed and glowing in pajama shorts and one of Leslie’s sweaters.

“What’s burning?” she asks, and Leslie looks happier than Daveed has ever seen him, Nicolette’s dubious expression ignored. He pulls her close for a kiss, one hand on the side of her belly. Extricates herself from Leslie, faux-chiding, “Don’t be rude,” before she hugs Daveed, kisses him warmly on both cheeks. She’ flushed despite the chill outside, and she says, “I’m glad you’re here! Since all the fun stuff is off-limits now, I made Leslie promise to take video for me so I could see what I was missing.”

“Did he?” comes out practically as a croak, making both Nicolette and Leslie laugh. _Well, good_ , he thinks, not minding it’s at his own expense. Manages to say, “Not burning, just crispy,” when Leslie pulls their broccoli and sweet potatoes from the oven. Nicolette makes him drink what feels like a gallon of tea before he’s given dinner, shushes him when he forgets he’s meant to write instead of talk.

“We could come here every year for the holidays, make it a tradition.” She drops onto the couch, drapes a blanket over her shoulders. 

“If we were in LA,” Leslie counters, “I could grill outside every year on Christmas.” They’d had to open the windows from all the cast iron skillet smoke, letting the cold in. He slices up the steaks, piles everything into warmed bowls. They eat in the living area, Leslie next to Nicolette with her feet in his lap, Daveed in an armchair. Between bites she gushes about London and afternoon tea and all the old ladies who call her “love,” occasionally poking Leslie with her big toe for emphasis.

Her belly’s popped, rounded out underneath the thick sweater, and Daveed wonders if someone else had painted her toenails purple for her, if Leslie did it. They’re so adorably domestic he’d be sick if he didn’t love them both so much. The food and wine have warmed him through, soothing the aches and his body, and he settles further into the chair.

“Will you stay here tonight?” Nicolette asks, sounding further away than she should, and smiles when Daveed nods. He thinks he might drift off, just for a few minutes.


End file.
